Georgia on Her Mind (14 page)

“I’m very happy for you. Eric is great,” I say, arranging my pillows harem-style and covering them with a blanket.

“I know,” she purrs.

Tamara pops in the DVD and takes a seat on the couch. While the player cues up the show, Tamara fires off a challenge. “Best movie of all time?”

“The Way We Were,”
I say.

Adriane objects. “Too sad.
It’s A Wonderful Life.
”

Lucy votes.
“Gone With The Wind.”

We
oooh.
“Good one.”

I hold up my hand. “I don’t care what anyone says. I love
Remember the Titans.
”

“I’ve never seen that,” Tamara confesses.

“What? You’ve got to see it,” I insist, curling up on my pillowy bed.

“We’ll watch it next movie night,” Tamara suggests, and we all agree.

I get a little dewy-eyed. “Thanks again, you guys, for being here.”

Lucy smiles. “Where else would we be?”

T
uesday afternoon I cruise home along the Indian River after a much-needed shopping spree (need new outfit for reunion, don’t I?—plan ahead, plan ahead) with the Beemer’s top down.

The reunion agenda calls for a fancy Saturday-night dinner, so I definitely need to look fresh, hip and in command. Can’t have the emcee looking like a used shoe.

Overhead, the sun shines brightly in a very blue sky and the air is scented and salty. It’s the kind of day that stirs my faith. Forget about Casper, friends with boyfriends and the gorgeous life of former classmates. I’m ready to get on with my own life—wonderful.

Still in the dark about Myers-Smith, I decide to call Peyton first thing in the morning if I don’t hear anything by the end of the day.

Behind me, the plastic bag covering my new dress flaps in the wind. I use the rearview mirror to make sure it’s safe. I should have stored it in the trunk. I smile. If Dylan liked me in the blue poplin, maybe he’ll love me in this one.

When I pull into the garage, I catch sight of Drag loping across his little lawn, surfboard clutched under his arm.

“Hello,” I call to him, unhooking the dress from the backseat latch.

“You busy?” He tips his head to the side, eyes squinting in the sunlight, his sunglasses riding on his head.

I open the garage door. “I’m unemployed.”

“Then can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” This feels serious.

He leaves his board leaning on the outer garage wall and kicks off his worn flip-flops.

“Nice place,” he says, making his way through the kitchen to the living room.

“Not much different than yours, I’d guess.” I run upstairs to hang up the dress.

“Have you seen my place?” he calls after me.

“Actually, no,” I holler down from my room.

“I have two lawn chairs, a plastic picnic table and a hammock.”

I jog down the stairs. “Furniture is so overrated. Would you like something to drink? Water or Diet Coke?”

“No, thanks.” He sits on the couch, scooping his long blond locks away from his face.

For the first time, I notice his aristocratic features. His nose, jaw and chin line up perfectly.

He notices me noticing. “What?”

I blush. “Nothing.” I sit on the couch, facing him, curling my legs under me. “What’s up?”

He leans forward and knocks his knuckles on the edge of the coffee table as if he’s suddenly nervous. “I was wondering,” he says, avoiding my eyes, “if you could tell me about Jesus.”

“Jesus?” I repeat, as if I’m hearing the name for the first time—one of my more poignant “duh” moments.

“I’ve read the New Testament three times.”

“Three times?” I’m impressed.

“Yeah, and I was—”

The phone’s ring interrupts Drag’s question.

“Excuse me,” I say, reaching for the portable on the coffee table. “Hello?”

“Ms. Moore?”

“Yes.” The voice is not familiar.

“Steve Albright from Myers-Smith in New York.”

I leap off the couch. “How are you?”

“My apologies for taking so long to get back to you.”

“That’s all right.” I motion just a minute to Drag. I walk to the stairs and sit on the bottom step.

“Our human resources manager is no longer with us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I respond for lack of anything better.

“So was he.”

I bite back a laugh. Poor Bob.

“Anyway,” Steve continues, “I hear you interviewed in jeans and impressed the New York office.”

I stand. All the blood drains from my brain. “What?” The word is weak and wispy.

“We’d like you to take a look at a job in our Chicago office. Director of customer service. It’s a smaller operation than New York, but the Midwest market is booming right now. The department would be yours to run.” He rattles off a potential salary, plus bonus, that knocks me back down on my derriere.

“I’m interested.” My head is spinning.

“You okay?” Drag asks, low and sincere.

I nod and give him the just-a-minute sign again.

“Can you interview in Chicago the week of the twelfth? Sorry to wait so long, but Human Resources is being reorganized.”

“The twelfth is fine.” In fact, perfect. Right before the dreaded Beauty High reunion. That emcee job might not be so bad in this new light.

Welcome our emcee, Macy Moore, corporate director for Myers-Smith Webware.

Steve Albright and I talk dates and times. No need to jot it down or whip out my PDA—this information is forever engraved on my brain.

Steve confirms that his office will e-mail me an e-ticket from Melbourne to Chicago and the hotel information.

“I look forward to meeting you,” he says.

“Same here. Thank you.”

I press End. The phone dangles from my limp hand. I’m shaking.

“Good news or bad? I can’t tell. Your face is white, but you’re smiling.” Drag watches me with a half grin.

I toss the phone onto the coffee table. “They want me to interview for the director position in the Chicago office. Chicago.” I mute my squeal, but my insides are all swirly.

“Congratulations.” Drag raps his knuckles on the table again.

I feel like calling someone. Lucy. Dad. Chris. Roni Karpinski.
How do you like me now, Attila?

But Drag is here. Talking about the Bible and Jesus. Right. I come to my senses and plop next to my neighbor on the couch. “Enough about me. Now, what do you want to know?”

Drag’s knuckle-knocking slows. “Is He for real?” No fooling around with this guy.

“Who? Jesus? Yes, He is.”

“You’re confident.” Drag draws back, but his blue eyes are wide with wonder.

“Drag, you know everyone bets their life on something.”

“True.”

“For you, it’s the next great wave. For my ex-boyfriend, it’s the bull market.” I catch my own wave and hang on for the ride to shore.

“My father lived for the bull market.”

“And what did it get him?”

“A heart attack.” Drag collapses against my couch and chews on the tip of his thumb.

“Jesus is the only way to true peace, the only sure thing,” I say.

“To believe or not to believe. That is the question.” Drag recites his own Shakespearean prose.

“Exactly.” I tap my hand on his leg.

He gives me a small grin while still nibbling on his thumb. I have a profound thought and am about to share it when, of course, the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Dinner?” Lucy asks with fabled familiarity.

“Absolutely.”

“Be there in a few hours.” I hear Lucy’s remote key beep and her car door pop open. “I’ll pick up something.”

“Jack coming?” Why I bother asking I’ll never know.
Jack
and
Lucy
are synonyms.

“If you don’t mind.”

I face Drag. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Do I like to surf?” His Goofy laugh rolls out.

“Right.” I nod. “Drag’s joining us.”

“Drag? What’s he doing there?”

“I’ll let him tell you.”

“Macy…” she says in her what-have-you-done-now tone.

“Bye.” I press End. It’s then I realize this business with Drag completely eclipsed my Chicago, Myers-Smith excitement.

I’ll meditate on that later. For now, it’s back to Drag, Jesus and signing up for a spot in eternity.

“So, where were we?” I prod him.

“Believing or not believing.” Drag sighs, then says, “I believe, Macy. I just wish I could see.”

“Ah, that’s what faith is all about. You must see with the eyes of your heart. You can’t see the wind, you can’t see love, but you know those things are real.”

He regards me for a lingering second. “So what do I do?”

“Well, you read about Jesus, right? Tell Him you believe in what He said and did. Trust Him with your heart.”

“Dude, just like that? Say it?” His tone rises at the end of the sentence as if he can’t believe it to be that easy.

“Just like that. Speak from your heart, say whatever you
want.” I stop short. I don’t want my excitement to overwhelm him.

Drag slides to the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, and locks his hands in front of him. He bows his head.

“Well, God, um, Jesus. Look, Dude, I believe You died for me, though I’m not sure why, but thanks. And forgive the bad stuff I’ve done. I want to be Your friend.”

A
whoosh
feeling hits me and I start to snicker.

“What?” Drag peeks out from under his bowed brow, irritated. “You’re laughing.”

I button it up. “Just happy. Jesus is your friend and now you are His.”

“Whoa, dude, heavy.” Drag smiles and I know heaven has touched his heart.

If everything I endured the past few months was to help Drag find this place of peace, I’d take a deep breath and do it all over again.

T
he first weekend in June I drive to Beauty for…um, I don’t know. Bored, I guess. Georgia on my mind, maybe. It’s a beautiful weekend on the eastern seaboard and my Single Saved Sisters are otherwise engaged.

Lucy and Jack are spending the weekend at Disney with his parents and sisters. Tamara is in Live Oak visiting family with Sam, and Adriane is starting a new book. She’s buried in the painful process of Chapter One and unable to communicate with any kind of human kindness.

So I throw a bag into the back of the car and head north on I-95.

I arrive in Beauty by late afternoon. Workmen are running a banner across Jasmine Street.

Welcome to Beauty Days.

Beauty Days start right after Memorial Day and go through Labor Day. June is Saturday In The Park month, where every Saturday the town gathers for the Beauty Games, craft showing and eating.

I cruise slowly down Jasmine, checking out all the shops and buildings, Saturday In The Park banners and balloons dancing in the breeze.

At the stoplight I have a perfect view of the park, where a small tent village dots the green lawn.

Well, if I was going to wander home for a weekend, this was a good one to pick. Saturday In The Park has always been one of my hometown favorite events.

As I turn onto Laurel, I catch a glimpse of the Braun Bikes tent. Right next to it, I see D. Sculptures. Dylan. The idea of seeing Dylan gives me warm fuzzies. Yeah, I know I’m moving to Chicago, but it is Beauty Days, and I can let my soul dream. A little.

A few minutes later I walk through the front door of 21 Laurel yelling, “Mom, I’m home.”

I hear a clatter and a crash from the kitchen. She peers around the doorway, shocked.

“Macy, what on earth? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course. A girl can’t come home for a visit?” I ask, arms wide. Yeah, I know, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve done this in the past ten years, two of them being this spring, but since I’m no longer living life as if my hair’s on fire, I find time for the simple things.

“Well, certainly you can visit. It’s just not like you.” She gives me a hug.

I breathe in her subtle scent and wonder if I’ve been
that distant. A surprise weekend home and Mom nearly ruins dinner.

While she bastes the roast and pops rolls onto a baking sheet, she catches me up on the town and family news (Aunt May got a new poodle.)

“Oh, Saturday In The Park starts tomorrow. You have to come out. Dad’s donated all the sauce for the big grill-out.”

I yank open the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “We’ll see.” The warm fuzzies I had earlier over Dylan have cooled a little. Why start what I can’t finish?

An hour later Dad comes in and pretends my presence is expected, an everyday event. He tells us how many cases of barbecue sauce he delivered for the grill-out, how e-orders are up since
The Food Connection
linked their Web site to the Moore Gourmet Sauces site and how Rhine is calling him with ideas for showcasing the product.

“It’s nice to have him so enthusiastic, Dad,” I say.

“I’m not complaining,” Dad counters, snatching a cooked carrot from the pan Mom’s pulling from the oven.

We enjoy a nice, yummy dinner together, but by nine o’clock I’m asleep on the couch. Without a million to-dos or looming project deadlines, my mind is starting to unwind and sleep comes easily. A little after midnight I stumble upstairs and fall face-first into bed without changing into my jammies.

Well after noon on Saturday I wander into the kitchen and find a note from the folks saying they’d gone to the park. “Look for us at the Moore tent.”

It’s a cold cinnamon bun for breakfast, then hop into the shower, hoping to run into Dylan today.

It’s a gorgeous day, and since the park is just down the street, I slip on my sneakers and head out on foot.

First stop, the Braun Bikes tent. Mr. Braun greets me as if I’m his prodigal daughter.

“Macy, welcome. Welcome home.” He wraps his Papa Bear arms around me and motions to a half dozen motorcycles stationed around the tent. “What do you think?”

I walk among them. “They’re amazing,” I say, observing the fine detail and custom work applied to each one.

“Most of the handiwork is Dylan’s,” he says, obviously proud. “I do the grunt work. He makes them worth buying.”

“I never knew he was so artsy,” I say, running my hand along a hand-tooled leather seat.

“Closet talent, I guess. That boy can do just about anything.”

A look passes between Mr. Braun and me, communicating something deeper than words can say, and it makes me squirm.

“He’s over at the pie-eating contest,” Mr. Braun says, tipping his head toward the tent door.

I grin. “Another hidden talent?”

He flashes the original Braun grin, rakish and white. “He’s the defending champ.”

“Well, then, maybe I’ll go see.”

“Better hurry. It’s over by the barbecue grills.”

I skip-hop-run over to the cooking area. Up on the stage I see the long table of pies. Bibbed men hover over them, hands behind their backs, waiting for the whistle to blow.

Ellen Van Buren, Beauty’s mayor, is giving instructions, her loud, shrill voice causing the cheap sound system to feed back.

I spot Dylan on the end wearing a golden bib. I laugh. Pie-eating champ. Only Dylan. I shove my way through the crowd toward the front so I can say hi to him.

But yellow police tape ropes off the pie-eating area. “Can’t go any farther,” seventy-year-old Rover Whitaker says in my ear.

“Hey, Rover, how are you?” I ask, patting him on the arm.

“Good, though my rheumatism is acting up some.”

Now, not that I don’t care about Rover and his rheumatism, but I’m determined to get Dylan’s attention before he pies his own face. From where I’m standing, about five feet back, I can tell his expression is intense—he’s ready to win.

“You have one minute,” Ellen hollers into the mike. “Get ready.”

Dylan bends down, face toward the pie, hands locked behind his back.

“Dylan.” I psst, leaning close. “Dylan.”

He shifts his eyes to see who’s calling him.

“On the count of three,” Ellen barks, her whistle poised, ready to blow. “One!”

“Good luck,” I say with a big smile and a thumbs-up.

“Two.”

He smiles and winks.

“Three.” The whistle pierces the air and Dylan’s face is buried in a mile-high pile of whipped cream.

Everyone is cheering and laughing. I see something dangling from Dylan’s mouth. He chomps it up and goes for another bite.

“Gummie worms.” Rover chuckles.

Ew!

But before the whistle blows, Dylan jumps away from his pie plate. White cream covers his nose, cheeks, mouth and chin, but he’s the winner. Once again. “Dylan Braun, the defending champ, is our winner!” Ellen walks over to him, a blue ribbon in her hand.

Dylan shoots his arms into the air over his head as if he just won the Super Bowl.

The crowd starts chanting. “Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.”

All at once his eyes are on me and he’s pointing. Grinning. Well, I think he’s grinning. Who can tell with all that white cream around his mouth?

I smile and wave back. He jumps off the stage and strides toward me as if he’s Michael Vartan about to kiss Drew Barrymore in
Never Been Kissed.

What is he…Realization dawns. I’m Macy Moore in
About To Be Kissed.
The whole town is watching. Oh, my word.

I walk backward, shaking my head. “Now, Dylan…” Dylan stoops under the yellow tape and closes the gap between us.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” I holler, pointing. “Police, police, he just crossed the line.”

The crowd parts to let him pass, exposing me with nowhere to hide. Traitors.

They still chant his name. I turn to run. But he reaches out with one last stride and grabs my arm.

“Ack! Dylan.”

He whirls me around and pulls me to him. For one brief moment his eyes search mine, asking permission. I’m pretty sure both eyes are saying yes.

“You could at least clean off your face,” I murmur, feeling woozy. Umm, sandalwood and spices. My favorite scent.

“I could,” he says, then lowers his lips to mine. His kiss is real, tender and very sweet and messy.

The crowd cheers. I burst into a giggle-snicker and wind up with a snort of whipped cream up my nostril.

“You have something on your face,” he teases.

“Do I, now?” I can’t stop smiling.

Someone—don’t know who—hands him a wet towel. Gently he cleans my face. When he finally releases me, I almost fall down from the swooniness of it all.

He’s so incredibly easy to be around, so incredibly easy to kiss. Yet he gets me so mixed up. Knocks my world off-kilter.

He cleans his face after mine and, taking my hand, walks me over to one of the park benches, tossing the towel onto the pie table.

We’re about to sit when he presses his hand against my back and pushes me to him so he can kiss me again.

“I just wanted to make sure the sweetness was you, not the whipped cream.”

My nerve endings are snapping and firing, but I laugh at his corny comment. Then, naturally, I panic.

“I—I’m fat,” I blab.

“Wh-what?” His lips are millimeters from mine.

“I’m fat,” I repeat a little more loudly.

He steps away and gives me the once-over. “No, you’re just right. Better than right.”

“Fourth grade. The haiku. ‘I went out to play. I saw Macy Moore. She’s fat.’ Remember?”

Dylan sits and pulls me down to the bench next to him. “That was cruel of me and I’m sorry.”

I try to respond with a clever quip, but the first syllable is a mere squeak. I clamp my mouth shut.

“Sometimes guys do dumb stuff.” He places his arm around me.

“No problem,” I manage to croak, relishing the sensation of his arm curling around me, cradling me against him.

The lake breeze brushes our faces and in the moment of silence, my mind records every vivid detail and sensation of his kiss.

The SSS will be thrilled.

He lifts his hand so the ends of my hair whisper through his fingers. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time,” he confesses.

I turn to him. “Why’d you wait?”

He shakes his head, spreads his arms along the back of the bench and with a sly grin, gives up his secret. “You were the untouchable Macy Moore.”

“Untouchable?” I repeat. That’s not the word I’d use.

He regards me. “You were larger than life, taking on the world, breaking all the rules.”

“Me? No, you were the one larger than life. Football hero, Most Popular, dean’s list. You had more girls huddling around you than players on the football field.”

He regards me, his emotion reflected in his eyes. “I didn’t see you crowding around.”

Truly, he’s melting my insides.

Wait, Macy. Stop swooning. Think. You’re thirty-three, not thirteen. I jump up, slipping my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

“I’m moving to Chicago,” I say, matter-of-fact.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I see.”

I look toward the tent village. “I’m not with Casper anymore, Dylan. I’m interviewing with another Web software company. It’s a tremendous opportunity for me.”

“Is it what you want?”

“Of course.” I think. Yes, of course. Isn’t it the next yellow brick in the road?

He stands facing me. “Ever think of moving back to Beauty?”

“No, never.” I tremble, hearing myself say no to him. I can’t let a Dylan kiss derail me from landing my dream job. One confession of admiration can’t melt my career goals like butter in the microwave. Or can it?

No, absolutely not. I have too much invested in my career and not enough in Dylan Braun. I have no basket in which to put my eggs.

“Macy…” He pulls me close and I press my cheek against his chest, listening to his heart beat.

“Dylan, hey, Dylan.” Ellen Van Buren is huffing and puffing our way. “We need your photo for the paper.”

He waves to her. “Okay, Ellen, be right there.”

I lift my face toward his, waiting, longing, yet knowing.

“Good luck in Chicago.” He brushes my hair away, then bends to kiss me ever so lightly on the lips.

Monday morning as I haul my stuff down the front stairs and out to my car, Dad meets me on the front porch.

“Let me help you.” He grabs my suitcase and tosses it into my trunk. I drop my purse into the passenger seat.

The morning song of the birds is as fresh as the dew on
the trees and it’s another great day. I pop the top on the BMW, figuring I’ll start home with only the Georgia sky over my head. I look forward to the drive, a time to ponder and pray.

“Can I talk to you?” Dad asks when the convertible top is tucked away. “Let’s take a drive over by the lake.”

I stare at him for a nanosecond. He’s up to something. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

He chuckles. “I’ll stop and get some coffees. See you at the lake.”

“All right, but I’m dubious.” I kiss Mom goodbye and head for the park and Crystal Lake.

“So, what’s on your mind?” I ask Dad when he arrives. He hands me a coffee from a paper bag.

“I suppose you’re looking forward to the Chicago interview.”

We walk toward the benches under the mossy oak trees, weaving our way through closed tents and locked booths.

“I am.” My insides leap at the thought. Chicago. My kind of town.

“I’d like you to consider something.” Dad pauses to face me.

“All righty.” I prep for some fatherly, businessman advice.

“Join me at Moore Gourmet Sauces.”

“Huh?” I gape at him. What is he saying?

“Join me in the business.” He cups his hands around his coffee.

“Move back to Beauty? Is this what you were talking to Rhine about?” What an unnerving notion. I let my mind picture Dylan for one teeny-tiny second, then shove him back into a dark corner.

“Yes. I mentioned your business skills to Rhine.” He
flashes a fatherly grin. “Moving back to Beauty would be part of joining me in the business.”

“After all the years, you think I’d consider moving back home?” I sound incredulous. I am incredulous. I love my father, but he can’t be serious.